The violins weep with the Gypsies heading for Andalusia,
the violins cry for the Arabs departing Andalusia.
The violins cry for a lost epoch that will not return,
The violins cry for a lost homeland that could be regained.
The violins burn the forests of the far darkness
the violins wound the horizon, and smell the blood in my veins.
The violins are horses on a string of phantoms, and water groaning,
the violins are a field of wild lilac that move forward and backward.
The violins are a beast tortured by the nails of a woman
who touches and then move away, the violins are an army that builds a grave of marble and melodies.
The violins are the anarchy of hearts picked up by the
wind on a dancer's foot, the violins are flocks of birds seeking shade under an incomplete banner.
The violins are the complaints of the curled silk on a passionate night,
the violins are the effect of wine denied to an earlier thirst.
The violins follow me, here and there, to avenge me,
the violins are searching to kill me, wherever they find me.
My violins cry for the Arabs departing Andalusia,
the violins weep with the Gypsies heading for Andalusia.
Mahmoud Darwish